


Wisteria

by kay_cricketed



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 15:04:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_cricketed/pseuds/kay_cricketed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik hates that he can't hide how much he wants Charles.  In the weeks before the Cuban Missile Crisis, he finds that his mind isn't the only thing that's betrayed him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wisteria

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [prompt](http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/806.html?thread=6694) at the X-Men First Class Kink Meme.

_Wisteria_

 **i.**

The imprint of the coin in his palm is soft, worn into his skin like a faded tattoo. Sometimes Erik will let his mind drift amongst its chaos and when he returns to himself, his fingertips are tracing that small patch, rememorizing it. He is covered in markers. Some are more visible than others. Charles can see them all.

Charles sees everything.

Erik wishes he could hate him for that. After all, Erik’s mind isn’t a pleasant place for school children to play—he feels entrenched in his pain, in the memories of grating metal and slate-colored mud filling his shoes, and the only focus he can find is in a raw, burnt rage that tastes like new ash in his mouth. He knows himself to be an atrocity; he knows that he perceives the world to match him. He is no one to be pitied, but despite that, Charles still cries for him when he fishes from the mire a forgotten memory of mothers and candles in the dark. Charles forgives him everything. _Everything_ , which is foolishly endearing, and Erik wants him, wants to keep Charles to himself in a locked iron box built to contain them from the world ( _the world from them_ ).

Charles, who has shown him how to harness unfathomable power. Charles, who has a particularly messy smile when he’s had too much brandy (but never so much that he can’t beat Erik at chess). Charles, who has faults of his own but sandpapers them to a fine grain; his arrogance is tempered by an incomprehensible acceptance of the people, both mutant and human, he’s brought into his home.

“My friend,” he calls Erik, as if the ability to name him so—as if Erik himself—is a gift Charles longs to cherish ‘til old age.

Erik realizes, too late, his mind isn’t the only thing that’s betrayed him.

 **ii.**

“That was a risky move,” Charles notes.

The alcohol cuts its way down Erik’s throat. He sets the tumbler beside the chessboard and steeples his fingers, sinking back into the plush chair. “Risks have to be taken to capture the king.”

“So much focus on the king. The queen is far more dangerous in her versatility and strength.” Charles moves a pawn—he’s fond of them, manipulating them as often if not more than he does his stronger pieces—and makes a thoughtful noise. “Most of the people I played in school concentrated on taking my queen long before they even considered the king. She seemed the bigger threat. Of course, that’s very much like you, isn’t it? Fixated on the master.”

“There’s no point in losing sight of your end goal.” He studies the board, rubbing his jaw. “Look at the board. You play the same as I do.”

“We both have an eye to the future.”

Erik looks at him. He asks, “What do you see in your future, Charles?”

Briefly, Charles’ gaze captures his and remains there. Some part of Erik wonders if his mind is being read and the other part is certain it’s not. There’s a small lift to Charles’ mouth, a smile that’s at once melancholy and yet hopeful; he doesn’t bother to answer the question. But the sight of him arrests something in Erik that is still newly born, still clumsy and aggravating.

He excuses himself for the night. At the moment, he has no patience for Charles’ subtleties.

 **iii.**

It is maddening.

There’s no room for this while hunting down Shaw. Sex has always been meaningless, a device to sate Erik and help him to sleep better before leaving for the next destination. But he isn’t accustomed to the sharp edge of _want_. It rests heavy in his belly, makes his ears buzz, electrifies his senses, sets his blood aflame and oh, Erik burns from the inside.

No time for this, but he hadn’t had space for brotherhood and friendship either. Now look at him. Now look.

 **iv.**

“What on earth is wrong with you lately?”

“Nothing.”

“Between my sister’s cutting outbursts and you avoiding me, I’m starting to wonder if I’ve overlooked some reprehensible act I’ve committed,” Charles complains, though mildly. He speeds his steps a little to keep up with Erik’s longer, hurried stride. He looks tired in the gray curtain of the morning, the vivid greens of the garden making his colors stark and wan. “Where are you going? We need to train, Erik.”

“I don’t need you to train, Charles.”

“Well, certainly not anymore—your progress has been remarkable, you know—but I assumed you gained the same gratification and fulfillment from my companionship as I did yours. Was I wrong?”

No. No, he’s not wrong, and damn him to hell—damn Charles Francis Xavier and his honesty in saying what he feels. Erik grits his teeth and slows his pace, trying not to give away his thoughts too freely. He feels like an obvious fool. Even without telepathy, every move he makes could be the one that Charles uses to deduce his problem. _Don’t read my mind, Charles,_ he thinks, as hard as he can.

Charles winces and rubs his temple. “I’m not. I’ve no reason to just now. I was actually hoping you’d tell me of your own volition what’s troubling you, my friend.”

Erik endures a bright, ugly flare of frustration that he’s glad can’t be gleaned from his brain. It’s frustration warring with something else. He looks at Charles and feels the wanting swell up inside of him. Charles stares back without fear and Erik would like—he would like to take fistfuls of Charles’ expensive coat and push him back into the wisteria bushes, press against him until their bodies’ proximity chases the early chill, and take his mouth— _bite_ at it, sink into damp heat and kiss him until Charles can’t breathe—until he’s molded to Erik, unable to think, as driven and wanting as the one he’s faulted. Erik wants to put his hands under that coat and shirt, feel the soft and strong places of his friend, cup the pulse between his legs. He wants to have him right there in the dirt and dew and brambles.

Something in the blue of Charles’ eyes flickers. He looks away first, clearing his throat. He isn’t quite flushing, but it’s close.

Erik grins at him like he’s won a battle and walks on. This time, Charles doesn’t follow—but he will, Erik decides, next time.

 **v.**

Erik holds his cards close to his chest; therefore, it’s particularly annoying to have Charles able to pluck them all, read the deck, and replace them neatly in order without his knowing so. He’s not an insecure man. On the contrary, he has nothing but the highest regard for his talents and philosophies. Even so. Even so, there are still some things that should be kept secret.

“We don’t have much time,” Charles tells him. In the hallway, his eyes are dark and troubled. “Will you avoid me until we have to go stop Shaw?”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

Charles reaches. Without thinking, Erik steps back from his touch, leaving Charles’ fingers hovering in mid-air. “You are,” his friend says, pensive.

“Leave it.”

“I don’t want to.”

That terrible honesty, how easily he bears himself—Erik can’t stand it. He’s infuriated and at the same time, almost hopes that Charles is reading his thoughts, has been reading his thoughts, has seen the fantasies that plague him, the image of Charles straddling Erik in the study—gripping the arms of the chair until his knuckles are milk-white, panting as Erik fucks him in short bursts. The cloying scent of sex. Sweat and brandy.

He’s almost disappointed, in fact, when Charles watches him leave without another word. _Coward,_ he thinks, but he’s not sure of to whom he speaks.

 **vii.**

He manages to restrain himself a little while longer. Then, Kennedy delivers a speech to the nation that provides them both with a window of opportunity. The opportunities they see are different, but Erik will face that bridge when he must cross it. He’s confident that Charles will take his hand on the last step. They share a profound bond.

Raven comes to his bed, but with a few well-placed words and too-young kisses ( _to have his sister join me will only further bend Charles to see my way_ ) he sends her off. For a while, Erik lays there in the dark and can smell her still on his sheets. He sighs. He wonders if Charles is awake or asleep.

 _I’m awake, my friend._

Erik only twitches a little. _I already sent her to bed, Charles._

Silence. Then, when he’s given up hearing a response, _I don’t have to read your mind to see it, you know. It’s in your body language. It’s how you watch me. It’s written in the way you grip my arm for attention. The… set of your mouth._

Erik closes his eyes.

 _Erik? You’re not alone._

His mouth is dry ( _always that taste of ash_ ), but his steps are sure. He goes to Charles’ room, his footsteps inaudible against the plush carpet. He doesn’t bother to knock. Charles, embraced in the butter-yellow light of his bedside lamp, glances up at him from a leather-bound book; he’s wrapped in a bathrobe that makes Erik think inexplicably of Raven, not hours ago. When Erik shuts the door, he puts the book down.

For a brief instant, Erik thinks he’s imagined the voices in his head—some kind of special madness bent to drive him over the edge. Then, Charles makes a nervous gesture with his hands and sits up in the bed, and Erik realizes he’s meant to go to him now, so he does, he does.

The way he kisses Charles is not the way he had kissed Raven.

 **viii.**

Their first ( _and only_ ) time is like this.

“Don’t,” Charles half-laughs, pushing Erik away as he tries to open the bottom half of the robe. “It’s embarrassing when you’re still dressed, my friend.” Never mind that he’s already on his back, that he’s spent the last few minutes being devoured; his mouth is swollen, his Adam’s apple slick and red from Erik’s attentions. Erik wants to leave markers on Charles, visible ones to match those he’s already planted deep, too deep to uproot.

“Charles,” Erik says. Just his name. But something in his voice makes Charles’ chuckle fade, makes him study Erik’s face like it’s genetic code.

Erik covers each of his bare knees with a palm. He opens Charles wide again, and this time Charles only swallows and lets him.

He has strong thighs, Erik thinks. A little extra flesh that jogging can’t rid him of—the life of someone who has always had food to eat—and there, nestled in a bed of curls, his cock is half-mast and pleasant to look at. Erik takes him in hand ( _heavy flesh, hotter than he expects despite knowing his own_ ) and strokes him firmly. Charles’ head falls back.

“Uhm,” he says, as if he can’t get enough air.

Then, he takes Erik by his shoulders and pulls him down, and Erik forgets that he ever had control to begin with.

 **ix.**

And there are things, too, that Erik hasn’t expected: the awkward moment when Charles can’t get Erik’s belt from his trousers, the command in his touch when he takes Erik in hand, tight bursts of pleasure, a fevered curse when he fits himself between Charles’ legs and presses their sexes together. “I didn’t know you knew such words,” he breathes, wrapping his arms around the small of Charles’ back. He lifts his weight and grinds hard against him.

Oh. Oh, god.

 _Someday,_ Charles tells him, a murmur that caresses his skull, _you’ll know as much about me as I know of you._

Erik kisses him harshly then. Drags the ability to make more than stifled, hungry noises away from him. If Charles wishes to speak, he can do so directly to Erik’s mind. They are evolved to do this, built to move together just so, Charles’ hand meant to clutch at Erik’s flexing shoulder blades as they rub against each other, slickness and pre-cum easing the way. Charles breathes very loudly but is otherwise quiet. Erik makes low noises that he can’t identify because he’s never made them before.

 _I would have you,_ he thinks at Charles, though he must know, he must have seen, _like this, but only better. I want to—be a part of you, have you in every way I can have you, Charles. I want to make you so sore you can’t leave this bed tomorrow, and even then, I would have you like that, rubber-legged and still full of my come._

Charles bites down on his bottom lip; it nearly draws blood. He breaks and speaks, voice ragged. “That’s so…”

 _You think it’s horrible and mortifying._

“Yes.”

“You like it,” Erik murmurs, covering his mouth again.

The faint but certain _yes_ floats briefly through his mind, but at that point, Erik is—

 **x.**

—lost, the sound of the bed springs squeaking and Charles making uncomfortable yet needy noises filling Erik with all he needs to know. Every so often, he catches a stray projection from Charles ( _s-slower, Erik, that’s, oh, toomuchdon’tstop_ ) but he can’t help himself. He has waited a lifetime for this. For the heat of Charles’ body gripping his cock, for the way Charles kisses the flesh over his heart as if making a direct claim.

He knows the friction of sweat-slicked skin and Charles’ erection, caught between their stomachs. Like a thundering distance, he’s aware of his own breathing. It comes in staccato. He fucks like he wields metal: graceful, efficient, but then losing himself to his passions.

Charles holds him tightly, as if he’s afraid he’ll lose Erik if he lets go. Erik doesn’t mind. He wants to be there, buried so far inside that he never fully leaves Charles, only keeps pushing that pressure home, making Charles gasp, making him scatter words and pleas across Erik’s consciousness that make no sense.

Lost—burning, damned, found and picked up and made new, a _better man_ —

Erik closes his eyes and presses his damp forehead to Charles’.

—and it’s like a door made of light, searing open between them.

 **xi.**

When Erik comes, he jerks his hips furiously (the way Charles cries out stays with him years) and stills. He comes to awareness in fragments. He’s trembling.

 _And crying,_ Charles tells him shakily. He cups Erik’s face and kisses the hot salt of his tears. It is somehow more intimate, and less so, than the act they've just committed. Erik presses his forehead to Charles' and wonders if such a gesture brings his thoughts directly to Charles' door.

Then there is sleep, and peace.

Erik dreams that he cannot move the coin, but because there _is_ no coin to move. When he wakes, sunlight drifts in through the blinds and Charles is still beneath him, arms wrapped around Erik as if to protect.

(He does not wake him, not for a long time.)


End file.
